Each week the National Post follows the possible thoughts of a notable newsmaker. This week the life of Justin Trudeau as imagined by Tristin Hopper

MONDAY

The pronouncements and the amendments fly, but let the others busy themselves with committees and documents, for I am a lover, unsullied by Parliamentary tedium; I borrow Cupid’s wings and soar. Through bush, through briar. From boxing match to rugby game. From roguish facial hair to separatist dalliance. I am that merry wanderer of the House.

TUESDAY

The Conservative Party of Canada attacks democracy! The country is an unrecognizable police state! Canadians deserve better! Perhaps these pronouncements speak of nothing but vain rhetoric, but after all, this parliament is but a stage, and I am merely a player. Try this on for size: “Fie, thou dishonest Satan, Mr. Harper! I call thee by the most modest terms; for I am one of those gentle ones.” Oh, had I but followed the arts!

[np-related]

WEDNESDAY

The night has been unruly — turned sour almost as if troubled by man’s act — and then I learn that Bob Rae shall lead no more. There are tears for his love, joy for his fortune and death for his ambition. Now I find that Canada salutes me with “Hail, king that shalt be!” Oh, that it should come to this: Nay, Canada, I tell you I am no leader! I follow, but with no want to serve my turn, for we cannot all be masters. My tongue is soft and my alliances are weak. For me, the flinty steel couch of political leadership has no allure.

THURSDAY

As I enter the caucus room, I see the ghost of my father standing before me. Why, I implored, do thy canonized bones, hearsed in death, burst forth from their cerements? “I am thy father’s spirit,” he thundered. “Doomed for a certain term to walk the night till the foul crimes done after my days of nature are burnt and purged away. They bow to a foreign Queen! They injure the Charter! The serpent that did sting my legacy now wears my crown!” Trembling, I repented: Fear not, dear father, thy name be aveng’d. Your just society is out of joint: accursed spite. That ever I was born to set it right!

FRIDAY

If chance will have me Liberal leader, why, chance may crown me Prime Minister. Come, you spirits, strip me of my juvenescence. Make thick my blood, stop up my remorse and fill me top-full of direst cunning. Let us overthrow the totems, break the taboos and coldly, let us be intelligent. Hang out the red banners on the outward walls! Blow, Tory attacks; come, wrack! At least we Grits will die with harness on our back. Before my body I throw my warlike shield. Lay on, Harper, lay on, Mulcair, and damn’d be him that first cries, “Hold, enough!”

Almost Done!

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